My Husband Left Me With His Dying Mother For A “business Trip,” But I Found Photos Of Him In Miami With Another Woman. He Thinks He’s Inheriting Everything, But My Mother-in-law Left It All To Me. How Do I Break The News?
Elizabeth’s Dying Wish
A storm broke over the city at midnight, bringing an icy chill that seeped through the cracks of the poorly sealed windows. In the small room steeped in the scent of medicine, my mother-in-law’s breathing became a sharp whistle, like a dry leaf skittering across asphalt.
Elizabeth had adamantly refused to go to the hospital to be put on a ventilator. She said she wanted to die at home, in her own bed, not surrounded by the cold, tangled tubes of an intensive care unit.
I sat on the edge of the bed, wiping her forehead with a warm, damp cloth to dry the beads of cold sweat. The dim light from the nightstand lamp illuminated the ravaged, suffering face of a woman who had worked tirelessly her entire life.
Suddenly, she opened her eyes. Her eyes, already clouded by illness, shone with a strange intensity, like an oil lamp burning brightest just before it goes out. She waved her bony hands in the air, searching for me.
I took her hand. It was ice cold, all skin and bone, but she squeezed mine with incredible force. Her sharp nails dug into my skin, causing a sharp pain, but I dared not pull away. She looked at me, her lips moving, her ragged breath smelling of farewell.
She whispered, her broken voice drowned out by the drumming of the rain on the roof, “Sophia, my child, Michael is a scoundrel. I know everything. I know where he is.”
My heart tightened. So she knew. The old woman, bedridden and seemingly detached from the world, knew the cruel truth I had just discovered. She had not said anything, not because she did not know, but because the pain was too great to put into words.
Tears welled up in the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, sliding down onto the pillow and dampening the fabric of my shirt. She struggled to sit up, pulling me closer, whispering in my ear as if she feared someone might hear, though only two lonely women remained in that house.
“Good daughter, listen to what your mother is telling you. After you are finished with my funeral, go back to my hometown alone. Remember, go alone. Go to the old kitchen and dig under that big ceramic crock where we used to keep the pickles in the corner. I have hidden something there for you.”
Her voice faded away, lost in the roar of thunder that shook the sky. The hand gripping mine suddenly went slack and fell limply to the side of the bed. Her heavy, labored breathing stopped completely.
The room plunged into absolute silence, broken only by the sound of the torrential rain, as if it wanted to wash away all the suffering of a lifetime. Mom was gone.
Indifference from Afar
I sat there motionless, looking at her now peaceful face. I did not scream or despair; I just felt an immense emptiness taking over my mind. The only person I had left in this house, my silent ally, was gone forever.
Trembling, I picked up my phone and dialed Michael’s number. One ring, two rings… by the tenth, no one answered. I called again and again. On the fifth try, he replied with a curt, cold text message: I am in an important meeting with the German partners to close a deal. Cannot talk. How is mom?
Reading the message, a bitter laugh escaped my lips as tears streamed down my face. A meeting with German partners at 3:00 a.m. Chicago time? Or was he busy having a meeting in bed with his mistress at some luxury resort in Miami?
Rage choked me. I typed each letter, my fingers trembling on the touchscreen: Mom passed away. Come home.
The message was sent and the read receipt appeared instantly, but the only response was a prolonged silence. Outside, the rain continued to pour, cold and indifferent like the heart of the man I called my husband.
I took my mother-in-law’s cold hand again and whispered, “Mom, rest in peace. I will go back to the town. I will find what you hid. I will not let your sacrifice be in vain.”
Michael did not come back. It was something I had expected, but when it was confirmed, I felt a cold ash in my heart. He used the excuse that the project was in a critical phase and that if he left now, he would have to pay a multi-million dollar penalty. He promised to make it up to me later.
At the funeral, my cell phone was solemnly placed next to Elizabeth’s photograph. The screen showed a video call from Michael. He appeared in an immaculate black suit, his face contorted in grief, weeping dramatically through the screen.
He cried out, “Mom, I am a terrible son. I could not make it back in time to see you one last time. Mother, from heaven, bless me so that I may succeed and honor your memory as you deserve.”
The relatives and neighbors who came to offer condolences, seeing the scene, clucked their tongues in sympathy. They whispered among themselves, “Poor Michael, working so far away he could not even come back for his own mother’s burial. But at least he said his goodbyes. You can see he has a good heart.”
Some even came over to comfort me. “Be strong and handle everything for him. He left for the good of the family.”
I stood there bowing my head in thanks, but inside I felt absolute contempt. I looked at the face distorted by fake grief on the screen and remembered the photos of him laughing by the pool with his mistress.
His performance was so brilliant that if I did not know the truth, perhaps even I would have been moved. But now, those virtual tears only made me sick. I handled everything alone, from the funeral arrangements to the cremation and greeting the guests.
I moved like a shadow through the funeral home, unable to shed a single tear in public. My tears had already dried up inside during the months of caring for my mother-in-law.
